


This Side of History

by AuriKitty



Series: Character History [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28805811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriKitty/pseuds/AuriKitty
Summary: Fleshing out DnD character backgrounds, the positive side of it at least.Used to be a challenge, but overwrote for one of the characters, so now it's a collection.
Series: Character History [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2129529
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6
Collections: Sin Bin DnD





	1. Leucius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just some fuckshit with his best friend  
> Per Yankee,   
> \- Say the full name three times in the mirror and you die of old age  
> \- "And??? There's more? That's a compound sentence!"

Being bored at his own birthday party has to be a crime somewhere, in some universe other than his mundane own. It's the biggest event in Dysgarth after all - a birthday for a Dysgarthian Prince, held in the Royal Gardens, with _his_ flowers being used as token decorations. It’s _great_ and _grand_ , lots of glitz and glamor, and too many drunk tieflings for him to count.

And yet, to his parent’s dismay, he had the absolute nerve not mingling with his guests, or bothering to put on a smile, much less show up.

Alas, the monotonous every day is his royal life, with sprinkles of foreign, vibrant colors and golden metals that adorned his skin. 

There's food, wine, willing women _and_ men, and he couldn't even spot his bedroom’s balcony. He does have a good view of the lights, the almost festival scene outside. Didn't seem that anyone noticed that he wasn’t there, really, too busy distracted by each other and the food and drink from all over. 

It’s custom for princes and princesses from neighboring nations to come with their dishes. It made the parents happy, and it made a well-worth excuse for them to "formally" introduce themselves to his brothers and sisters.

At least, it gives them something to do.

“Is that a prince I see completely bored out of his mind at his own birthday party?” A voice chimes in from behind him. It’s light, masculine, one that he’s grown accustomed to in their late-night raids and midnight walks on the town.

Leu drifts his fingers over his lips as a soft chuckle leaves it. He drops his head, then looks over his shoulder. “You know, my mother is going to lose her mind when she sees that you snuck into the prince’s bedroom again.”

He hears a snort in response, and then there’s a flop accompanied with a _huff_. “Yeah, well. She never liked me anyway, so,” There’s a grunt, sigh, and the sound of a few belts clanking. “What do I have to lose?”

The cool breeze from the port brushes against his red skin, gently nipping at the tip of his nose and cheeks. With that, Leu pushes off the railing, the chains and cords of his outfit, bumping and rattling together at the movement. 

Golden eyes glance at the Changeling reclining on his back, worn boot kicked up pressed against his freshly clean bed linens. His appearance is roguish, to say the least, a brandished revolver on his side, leather armor and tattered cloak. His pink eyes scan over his royal attire - nothing new, just bundled of silk, gold and cloth wrapped into a 30 lb outfit that rivaled plate armor.

“Ooh," the Changeling says, eyes catching on the formal green mantle with his family's insignia burned onto it. "And the cape to match?” 

Leu almost stops the smile from coming on his face, clearing his throat and shaking his head. "Mantle, Adriel."

Adriel raises a brow, and Leu notices a pink jagged line separating the hairs. 

" _Cape_. It's a fancy word for a cape." Adriel doesn't sit up with Leu coming over to the side of the bed - lilac hair barely drifting over his eyes as he grins at the sight of his scowl. "And the spotted fur? Nice touch."

Leu tries to look intimidating. He knew he didn't look intimidating, not with a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. "Your boots are dirty."

"Bloodied," Adriel corrected, and his smirk widened at the panic that flickered across Leu's eyes. "Had to crush a few skulls on my way here, messy business."

A beat.

Then a nudge with his leg to shake the bed slightly.

"Ri, I can't tell if you're serious, or if you're just being an asshole."

Adriel hums and finally sits up on the edge of the bed, placing his hands on his knees to stand. "I'm always an asshole according to you."

"Well, you are fitting into the role quite nicely."

Adriel smiles, showing off his sharp canines, and winks. 

The next second, the moment's gone, interrupted by a chorus of cheers and fanfare from outside the window. 

Leu visibly tenses as he hears the booming thaumaturgic voice of his father:

"My son, Bartholomew Leucius Alari De la Cour, House of Levasseur-Veilleux and Circle of the Twelve Swords of Vaillant, Baron of the Red Tides of Ahnáhel, Prince of Dysgarth, and the Fifth-in-Line to the Royal Throne."

A soft bump to his shoulder brings him back, away from the long string of titles, to a warm smile that he could only get from Adriel. It is in these moments that he knows that Adriel sees him, like this feeling overshadowed by the length of his titles has disappeared. 

"Hey," It's in this moment that Adriel raises his hand and ruffles his hair with a grin. It’s comforting, warm."You're still just Leu to me."

He doesn't know why but the tight coil in his stomach loosening, and even with his father continuing on his spiel about how great a son he was. Even if he was overshadowed by his thirty-five other brothers and sisters, he felt just like himself. 

“You’re pretty amazing,” Leu says, smacking his hand off his head. “Keep saying things like that and people might think we’re dating.” 

Not even a pause for Adriel to deliver his quip. “Date? You? Oh my god, I think I’m going to gag.” 

Leu frowns, reaching up and taking off the golden clips to his mantle, laying it on the bed. It _whoomps_ with a heavy thump, and he feels twenty pounds lighter. 

“You know, you don’t have an ass about it.”

“Sorry, I’m not interested,” Adriel says, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and shaking it. “But you have a whole kingdom willing to be a willing hole for the, uh, the Crown Prince of Getting His Dick Wet.” 

Leu snorts. He didn’t mind that title.

“Come on, I wanted to take you out for drinks at the tavern. I even got your absolute favorite redheaded Aasimar is waiting for you.” 

Leu’s brows raise, and he tries to ignore the snickering of his friend as he walks backwards, curling his finger with a sort of confidence that he strived to have.

  
  



	2. Roman

Roman has taken to polishing his weapon as he watches both his wife and daughter play on the lawn of their recently acquired mansion. Pouring another bit of polish to his already dirtied cloth, he smiles at the sounds of their conjoined laughter. The sun paints a hue of yellow and red behind them, birds chirping their songs and crickets singing their usual tune. He’s moved onto the bore brush now, the metal bristles scraping against the barrel of his gun, a comfort he’s grown to love.

He taps the excess powder and leads on the cloth on the kitchen counter, watching as his little girl is picked up and spun by his wife. His wife’s golden hair shines in the sunlight and sways around her full face. Her rose-colored dress flows in the field of colorful peonies that she insisted on planting.

_ Anyone else would have planted them wrong _ , his mind supplies in his wife’s voice, and it brings a smile to his face. Headstrong was his Briar-Rose, only liked it the way that she did it. Where some people thought it as snobby or controlling, he thought it was endearing. The joy that she had when she planted her first flower, or the determination that when she planted the entire field, just the way she wanted. Meticulous, detailed, his Briar-Rose. 

Almost as if she had heard his thoughts, he watched those spotted leopard ears flick and then those honey eyes of hers look at him. She holds their daughter up in one of her arms, then raises a hand to wave at him. Roman smiles, giving her a two-finger salute before going back to his weapon. 

He’s just about done. Just in time for their nightly sit by the fireplace. He places that gun with the others on the counter before shuffling over to the fireplace, dimly lit as the fires licking at the freshly cut logs.

There’s a few words being mumbled outside the open living room window, then another chorus of laughter. Roman finds that he adores that sound. 

He hasn’t heard much of it after their little Isobel was born, and they had a rough go of it, barely making ends meet, almost losing his wife in pregnancy and in marriage, but since he’d found this amulet, everything seemed to be going to be great, going right.

It is the first time in a long time that he is happy. 

After spreading out the folded blankets that Briar brought downstairs a little earlier, he hears the chime of the back door opening and the little pitter-patter of feet rushing towards him. He felt the tiny hands grab at his large tail as Isobel lets out a soft triumphant noise.

"Gotcha!"

Roman snorts, lifts his tail with ease, listening to her giggly wildly as she dangled on. Almost as if summoned, Briar appears in the doorway with a plate of sweet rolls in one hand and a cup of milk in the other. 

"Roman,” she starts. “What did I tell you about lifting her up that high?"

He raises a brow, looking back at Isobel who was only holding onto his tail like a monkey bar, legs dangling. 

"She seems to be having fun." He sways his tail again, only to get another squeak of happiness.

"She's a child," Briar says, coming into the room and placing the rolls on the blanket spread then looking at him. "She might hurt herself."

"She's a child. She's having fun," Roman snorts, raising his tail just enough, so he could take the small girl into his arms. Isobel is truly a combination of him and his wife _.  _ A grey Tabaxi with stripes of blonde around her nose, spotted ears, and those beautiful jade eyes with flecks of gold inside of them. 

He leans down, nuzzling her nose, earning him a giggle in response. “I would never hurt my baby girl.”

He says it like it’s a fact, looking up at Briar, who simply stared at him before she smiles.

“Yeah, yeah. Now, come on you two. Fire’s burning out.”

It is a tradition that they always had, every weekend, just as the sun began to set. His wife makes sweet rolls and brings a glass of cold milk, his little girl curls himself in his arms as he tells of the tales of the sea. And every time, she ends with the, “I want to see the Sea too one day.”   


And every time, Roman responds. “One day, Bella. One day.”

Isobel curls herself into her father’s large chest, taking a handful of fur and the other holding onto a half-eaten sweet roll. He watches as her eyes slowly close to the sounds of his tales of treasure and battles. And slowly, carefully, in a practiced motion, he shifts her in one arm while his wife takes the roll.

And then they sit there, together, watching the fires slowly die out.

“She’s going to absolutely lose it when you take her on the ship tomorrow,” Briar’s voice is soft as she moves next to him, flicking her tail and resting the side of her head against his shoulder.

“You’re going to love it as well. And you’re going to see why I love it out there too.”

Briar laughs, her hand coming to rest against the muscled arm, tracing against the muscles underneath the tunic she wore. 

“I doubt it, I think I’m going to be throwing up everywhere.” 

He chuckles, wrapping an arm around her waist and then leaning down to kiss at the top of her head. 

“Yes, but then you’ll love it too.”

“The throwing up?” She quips back, raising a brow.

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

"Do I?” She deadpans, but then a smile appears on his face, and he enjoys how the fire lights up her skin, and how her lips feel against his. And the absolute truth behind that kiss, and how it makes him smile that much wider.


	3. Zyrean

It isn’t a sparring day - thankfully. 

At least, he's thankful for it.

They both are too battered up from the last time they went toe-to-toe, and he still has this small stinging in his side from the last time she got a good hit in. The acolytes around the temple already started to whisper about their frequent gatherings outside the temple, often wondering what the two of them were doing when they weren't devoting themselves to Aedrie's followings. They'd seen the small wraps on their fingers and the patches they used to ease the swelling.

It wasn't like their opinion bothered him much though. 

A little after getting to the temple a year or so back, he decided that this temple life wasn't for him. The whole dedicating their life to service just wasn't sitting right with him.

But Zirian liked it, devoted herself to its teachings. She was really the only reason he stayed.

She made his days a little bit brighter.

Today is something that he's more excited for. 

He has to travel a little bit farther from their temple, but he’s able to fly up and get there in no time, wings flapping as he spins in the air. He eventually sees their huge weeping willow tree tucked in a field of wildflowers. And as he lets his wings take him down slowly, that’s when he sees her. 

Zirian's taken to practicing her movements with her wooden sword while she waits. She wields it clunkily, but still with a little more ease. For a minute - maybe even more than a minute if he’s to be honest - he watches her show a determination that he hasn't seen before. Her grey hair explodes around her with every swift movement, her brow furrowed as she practiced the movements that he had shown her a while ago.

And when she finally sees him, she smiles, bright like the sun beating down on their skin. 

“Don’t stop on my accord,” he says, going over towards the tree and placing his bag down. The bottles and vials inside the silk clink together. “You’re doing good. Although, still not good enough to beat me yet.” 

“One day I will,” comes the reply, and Zyrean grins, quirking a brow at her response. 

Oh? When had his little Ziri gotten a voice?

“Mmhm, sure,” Zyrean says with a roll of his eyes before he kneels down. He unrolls the bundle of white silk, embroidered with swirls and sigils of gold and lays it out like a spread Inside is a few metal combs and brushes adorned with jewels, several vials of Aheron oils, and some small ties.

"What's that?" She says after coming back after placing the sword down.

"I'm doing your hair today. You’ll see way better if you get it out of your face.” he says, his eyes looking up into her golden ones. He finds himself staring for another moment before he kneels down and sits back on his knees. “Sit here. It won't hurt. Promise.” 

He motions to the space in front of him. 

It’s only a few moments, but she’s sitting down. “On your knees” he guides her, voice gentle, eyes looking at the mess of hair that sits on her head. It’s not matted by any means, but he notices that it always gets in her face when she fights, and he's not ashamed to say that he uses that to get a few licks in during their sparring. But, if she wanted to get stronger, if she truly wanted to beat him, she needed to contain that hair that was growing a little bit too all over the place. 

Zyrean raises his hands and cards his fingers through his hair, noticing the small feathers peeking through her hairline. He remembered when they first met when her scalp slightly worn from the excessive plucking. 

"Your feathers are growing nicely," Z says, reaching for one of his oiled combs, parting her hair in sections. He moves with a skill that he learned by doing his own for years."They look beautiful."

He massages the light oils in her hair and scalp, starting conversations about the sky, the flowers, the fighting. He likes her outlook on things - she finds a new way to look at something. It passes the time as he combs through her hair, then brushes it back with a bristle brush. There's a few stray strands that he couldn't catch, but it worked.

"Braiding your hair keeps it out of your face, and when you can see," he says, combing his fingers through again and deftly braiding her hair in a dutch braid. "You can be the badass warrior that I know you can be."

And just with a small tie, a soft pat to the head, and a smile, he finishes.

“There,” he says, "When your hair gets a little longer, I'll teach you how to braid it in a crown."


	4. Nox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kinda tw//ghost child

Tonight, the moon lights his path.

A cold, winter breeze nips at his nose and warms his cheeks to the touch.

The tall, pale elf rubs his gloved hands together and mutters about the blasted wind this evening. His voice falls on absent ears.

Nox walks alone on a worn cobblestone road between trees, leading to the next city over. He rarely makes these journeys in the morning, given the nature of his controversial studies. Carrying a mummified arm or a bag of fresh body parts appears to attract negative attention, so traveling late nights would conclusively be the best course of action.

Fewer people travel, fewer people ask questions, and that’s exactly what he needs. 

He travels light, wearing a white robe and a longsword for protection. Thankfully, since he started his experiments on corpses, he hasn’t run into too many bandits on the road. And for those that did attempt to squall or stop his research, it truly was an unseen reward that they met the end of his blade.

They always proved to be fresh specimens, detailed in the lines of his leather-bound journal. Watching them raise as lifeless, undead, shambling corpses of their former selves tended to be most satisfying.

Otherwise, on quiet nights, even the random passerby seems to ignore him, flashing a passing, but cordial smile. His nose is always in a book, his mouth closed and pressed tight. They take the hint, go about their evening.

Nox doesn’t have any problems when traveling - except for when the dead start to whisper. As he walks on, his vision hazes for only a moment, and then... he feels the creeping of phantom hands, pulling and tugging at the corners of his mind.

Then, almost like a crescendo, he hears the whispers, getting louder with each step. They're incessant, pressing and digging in his head like an itch that he couldn’t scratch. He tries his best to ignore it, tries his best to keep his eyes on the road, because it’ll pass. _It will pass._

But it doesn't. It gets louder and louder, a conglomerate of different voices from the grave crying out, begging for help, _needing_ his help.

He pushes himself to walk a little faster, takes longer steps. And he's almost gotten away, the begs and please for mercy becoming nothing more than white noise.

Then, he hears it.

It's soft, faint, barely even recognizable over the sounds of haunted screaming, but it gives him pause. The chorus of the dead calms, and then, there’s only one voice. 

Crying.

He doesn’t know why he looks for the voice, breaks off from the path and into the trees. Stepping over logs, dipping under branches until the voice becomes clearer, almost as if they’re right next to him. He’s pushing into a clearing, and that’s when he sees it. A small translucent figure, standing in the middle of the field.

A ghost. 

A child.

Nox stares at the ghost for a moment as the more analytical parts of his brain flicks through rational explanations and reasons why a ghost is out alone. It isn't as if he hasn't seen ghosts before; they're usually tucked away in a ruin, a dungeon, or five inches deep in a graveyard. Not here, in the open, with no clear underground grave in sight.

But, it's not like he can ignore it now, not when it had reached out to him. Nox sighs, mental exhaustion clear, but hand on the pommel of his sword, he walks over to it, him - whatever the apparition was.

He starts, “Hel-” but he doesn’t even get the entire greeting out before the child shrieks, jumping out and landing with a soft _thump_ on the grass. 

_That doesn’t make sense_ , his mind supplies. _He’s dead._

“W-Who are you?” The child's voice is warbled with tears, tiny hands clutching at his ghostly tunic. The elf looks at the child, a more stoic irritation spreading across his face before he turns his head to look at the treeline.

He could always just leave.

After a few moments against his better judgment, he says. “It’s Noxea.” The child seems suspicious, maybe a mixture of confusion as he looks at the near seven-foot frame looming over him. "And you are?"

The child sniffs, wiping away his tears before shifting, gripping at the edges of a translucent tunic.

"Kiva."

Kiva. Alright. _Take it with stride, Nox._

"Hello Kiva." Nox kneels down, still a head taller, but at least closer to the ground. It feels strange, him talking to a ghost. Up until now, the ghosts that he met were feral, beings unable to form sentences but this one is different. 

Is there a connection between when spirits become more aggressive and out-of-control and the time that their souls are separated from their bodies?

"Why are you crying, Kiva?" He continues, the question at the forefront of his mind.

"I can't find my mother," the child supplies, wiping the tears off his face (Could they even be tears? Perhaps diaphanous streams? Did ghosts cry? How curious).

Questions. He has so many questions.

Nox removes his hand from his sword, everything in his gut telling him not to entertain the thoughts in his head, but his curiosity wins out. “Perhaps we should wait until she comes back.” The child seems to bob his head, looking around and moving closer to Nox's side.

There has to be a tie here, he thinks, then scans the ground around his feet. It takes a second glance, but just barely, he catches the sight of a mangled body mostly hidden by tall blades of grass. There’s barely anything left on it but sinews of muscle and bone. The blood is crusted on the body, so it's been there for a while. It isn't recent, but it wasn't old either. Picked apart by wolves and vultures, perhaps. 

He doesn’t hesitate, putting his bag down and kneeling in the blades of grass. He starts to dig, bare hands clawing through the dirt wet by the night dew and stained by blood. 

The child’s haunting voice came again. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m just tucking you in.” Nox says without thinking, digging through roots and grass and making a steady pile on the side. “Aren’t you tired?” 

A soft “Mm” comes from its lips as it stands next to him. 

Nox continues to dig in silence. The leaves and wind keep him company. 

The ghost seems to walk around, then kneel towards the hole that he was making, curious, but quiet. He finds that he appreciates that. It’s the first time that he had an entity that was quiet. The curse that he carries with him makes interacting with apparitions sometimes unbearable, making him an easy target for psychic attacks from the other Plane.

But this situation feels different.

He breaks a sweat even in the night air, grabbing large sediment rocks and tossing them to the side. When he’s done, Nox reaches to wipe the sweat from his brow, dirt smearing on his forehead.

Pellucid, childlike eyes look up at him, then at the hole created. He doesn’t say anything as Nox takes the mangled body from the ground, tattered and ripped clothes still clinging to skin. He doesn’t say anything as Nox strokes the skull with only a few locks of brown hair left on its head. He doesn’t say a word when Nox kneels down and gently lays him in the hole he created. 

Nox notices this, even as he brushes the dirt back onto the grave, covering the body with dirt, ripped grass and rock. And when the hole he created is full again, he pats down the earth, smoothing it out. 

Then and only then, he looks over at the child who stares at him and, subsequently, at the hole.

He doesn’t think that it’s registered that he’s dead yet, and that’s okay. He isn’t going to tell him either.

“Come here.” Nox says as he sits down next to the padded earth. “I’ll be your pillow until your mother comes back, alright?”

The child stares wordlessly, but in a moment, phases next to him, his head resting against his lap. It surprises him, but he doesn’t mind, not when he sees the child curled up - a stark contrast to when they first met. He looks calmer. 

“I’m tired.” He hears after a while.

“I know.” Nox responds. “You can go to sleep now.”

The child doesn’t say anything else. His form becomes almost frozen in time, just a ghostly figure on his lap. Nox stays awake that entire night. 

And when the sun comes up, when it lights the night sky in a sea of orange and red, the child fades away, not another word on his lips. 

It’s then that he sees his white robe is caked in dirt and old blood and realizes that doesn’t mind it.


	5. Rion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, i failed the challenge. so what. he's cute.

Rion isn’t someone to pay attention to the people that pass through his forest.

Most of the time, they’re adventurers, looking for some sort of treasure or perhaps to best a demon that crept deep in the woods. It didn't bother him much, knowing that it’s in an adventurer's mind to go about their day looking for something to fill their pockets - or to feel as though they are truly in control of their lives, despite dancing to the tune of someone else’s lute.

He often watches from the trees, being a small, invisible assistance - curious, always out of sight, careful.

His family taught him that outsiders to the forest were dangerous - always in the need of something that the forest could rarely provide. It was one of the reasons why he watched, why he kept a close eye on the adventurers so that they never took a piece of the forest that didn't belong to them. He wasn't the protector of his forest, but he was nonetheless attentive to how they behaved.

Rion takes the form of a few animals to monitor the adventurers. Sometimes, an eagle to watch from overhead. Other times, a panther to be sleek and stealthy in the forest. The forest calls to him in ways that adventurers could never hear. He hears the whispers of the trees tracking their location, feels the vibrations of their feet on the soft ground mush of the forest floor. The wind carries the smell the alcohol on the breath, and the trees shy away from the torches that they carry. 

But still, he never interferes, just watches.

Careful, curious, and out of sight.

Except for this one time. Only one time he’s shown his face to these adventurers.

There's a new party, and they're different from the rest. He doesn't know why they are there, but they aren't carving into his trees or marking the ground with their manmade markers. For those, he always took them. They deserved to be lost.

But these adventurers are different - respected the forest that they were in. They catch his eye, attracted by their mannerisms and their care. There is someone who had ears like him, another who had wings but wasn't a bird, and a taller brute similar to Nixonje. 

He’s seen all types, but he hasn’t seen people like them before, so he gets closer, stays in the trees, waiting, watching. 

There's one though who's more attentive than the others, one whose blue eyes always seem to find him even though he's hidden in the trees. The first time, he shifts into a squirrel to get away, his heart racing at the idea of being seen. It's the first time that he feels a sense of panic of being discovered, scattering away and listening to the party members tell "O-phe-lee-ya" that she's being paranoid. 

So, he thinks it's a fluke, thinks that this winged figure didn't really see him and that he’s imagined it. 

He expects them to move along, but they don't. They stay, and he's curious. Almost like they are waiting for something. Rion speaks to the trees, and they are just as curious as he. 

What were they waiting for?

Again, he waits for another day or so, listens to their conversation, gets close enough this time as another inconspicuous forest creature, and observes. He's able to see the party members that much more clearly now. 

One appears to be an orc, but one that is different from the brutes that often trudge past. Instead of grunts and growls, he's speaking with a sense of eloquence that he's never heard from a creature such as them. 

Another is an elf, at least he believes they are. They have the same ears as him, blonde hair, and a metal crown that mirrors the old Elven crowns that he’s seen in ruins nearby. Her ears are pointer and taller than his. She speaks haughtily, snobbishly. He doesn't like her.

The last is the winged creature with colorful wings similar to a kingfisher. Black hair, blue eyes like sapphire gems, and-. He doesn't have a moment to fully admire her before those blues are looking directly at him, finding his squirrel form next to one of the trees. He first thinks that she's going to look away like she's always done, but instead, she gets up, gets something from her pouch.

"Ophie, what are you doing?" the blonde elf speaks. "Leave these forest creatures alone."

The winged creature, Blue Eyes, doesn't stop, comes up to him, her winged ears flicking as she kneels right in front of him with a soft smile. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to react when she reaches in her pouch and pulls out a few pumpkin seeds and acorns that look familiar to the trees on the outskirts.

"Here you go, little guy," she says, and her voice sounds like music. Different, less aggressive than the ones that have come before. He likes it. "Are we in your forest?" She sits down and pulls her knees up to her chest. 

He doesn't know why, but this moment, this interaction, intrigues him, but still, Rion panics, shuffles into the forest, leaving the seeds behind. He can hear the soft disappointed sigh come from her lips as he shifts back into his human form behind a tree further away. His chest heaves in a mixture of fear and  _ excitement. _ He doesn’t go back to the party after that.

The next time he sees Blue Eyes, she's in trouble. They, somehow, have angered one of the sylvans by trespassing in their territory. They are usually peaceful creatures, but territorial. He's seen several adventurers fall to his brothers and sisters of the forest, and he's moving before he recognizes it.

He breaks the only rule that he knows and up until now, lived by: never expose yourself to adventurers. 

He’s no longer careful or out-of-sight. 

The sylvan goes first to the swing at Blue Eyes, and Rion jumps in front of the sylvan's hit, sees it falter for a moment, wooden fist pausing inches from his face. The sylvan speaks to him, confused, and he responds in Druidic, raising the hand holding his scimitar.

_ Be calm brother. These adventurers don't mean any harm.  _

It takes a few moments, but the sylvan’s fist is lowered, and it seems to understand. It huffs, then goes back to its space, raising its hands to his chest and becoming part of the forest again.

It doesn't register to him what he's done until he hears Blue Eyes speak. 

"Thank you," she says.

He blinks, and stiffens, his green eyes flickering towards her. He hasn't had much contact with this language before, only picked up from the adventurers that he had overseen on his way there. 

Small things. Like “Thank you” - a phrase when a person gives someone else something. How strange.

He hasn't given anything to them, so he’s visibly confused. Rion tilts his head, his disheveled brown hair moving over his dirt-caked face.

The elven woman speaks, says something in a rush, but Blue Eyes doesn't seem to pay her any mind. Just extends her hand. 

"My name is Ophie," she says, and Rion looks at her small hand. Is this when the humans slap their hands together? 

He high-fives her - the movement seems to shock her for a moment. Then, she giggles. "What's your name?" 

He's learned this one. "Rion." He presses his hand against his hide-covered chest. "Ree-awn." He pronounces it phonetically and watches Blue Eyes -  _ Ophie _ \- smile. He doesn't know why it makes her smile, or what he's done to make her smile, but he likes it.

Rion wants to keep her safe. 

"Help?" He asks, then looks at the two members of the party who seem to come up behind her. The elf scowls. The orc is indifferent, but he could see the questions swirling in their eyes.

He didn’t mind it.

They whisper amongst themselves, too hurried in Common that he doesn’t understand every single word. Something about trust, and him, but the words got lost in translation.

The trees breathe. “Be careful.” 

He knows.

The wind sings. “Foolish”. 

He  _ knows _ .

But nothing came from being silent in the shadows, and it would help the adventurers leave. 

After they tell him what they’re looking for, it’s easy to guide them through the forest, showing them the path. They are looking for ruins close to here, but the forest traps them, keeps them circling. 

The forest is cruel sometimes.

When he leads them to the ruin, he knows that they’ll be okay. The forest seems to quiet down as if it were him. And he watches the adventurers go in, Ophie looking back at him for a moment before being ushered in by the blonde elf.

He stands watch for a while, sitting in a tree, wondering when they would leave, if the forest would be kind. Days pass, and at first, he thinks that they’re gone, but then they emerge, battered and worn, armor painted red and coated with dirt. The orc carrying Ophie out. He wants to help, but they didn’t search for him. The forest lets them leave as it usually did once they receive what they’re looking for.

Time passes, and he’s forgotten about them, taking to the trees again. But, in his travels back to the ruin, something catches his eye. A small package next to the foot of the ruins. 

It’s strange, out of place, but he goes to open it, and a soft smile falls over his features. 

Inside the bag are pumpkin seeds, acorns, and a small sapphire gem.


	6. Riordan

Riordan hates being caught off guard., even if it’s not something that happens very often. 

He's able to strategize down to the smallest detail, plan for the slightest derailment, and yet this is what stays in his mind? 

_ Heavens _ , he has to work. He can’t be thinking about the lewd, wet sounds of his Lieutenant pumping his cock, the creaks from humping his bed, the strangled moaning of his name --

Fuck.

Heat flashes in him at the memory, his cock tightening in his pants. A low, repressed groan escapes his lips, fingers now pressing against his eyes as if to push the thoughts away. 

The renowned Knight-Commander is barely able to focus on the maps in front of him because of his Lieutenant running laps in his head. He keeps replaying the way Lyren breathed "Commander" in reverent fervor, the way he moaned it over and over like a prayer falling from his lips. 

He doesn’t realize he’s gripping the desk as tightly as he is until one of his newer recruits called him by name. When stormy green eyes meet the recruit, he starts to stutter, saying he’s come to deliver a message from the Dame Commander. He almost feels bad for the poor boy, having to relay a message when his stare is as hard as it is. 

Riordan doesn’t know exactly what the recruit had seen, a brief flash behind his eyes when he hears “Knight-Commander” but whatever it is, it causes him to hurriedly finish his report and leave. A goddamn welcome relief.

Closing his eyes, he tries to think of anything else - anything, but the only thing he’s met with is green hair, purple eyes, and a scarred, parted mouth wrapped around his cock. 

"Gods, Riordan," he mutters to himself, forcibly breaking the train of thought and looking at his desk, a haphazard collection of scattered papers, field messages, and battle markers. With a grunt, he presses his hand against the desk, about to stand when a blank page catches his eye. Slipping the paper from underneath the many piles of field messages, he holds the papyrus in his hand. 

And only then, thumbing the sheet, does the idea come to him - a more discreet way of communicating with the Lieutenant that seemed to be stuck in his mind. It is only fair, advising him without bringing him into his office. He truly isn’t sure what he would do if it did come to the point where they were alone together.

He takes a fountain pen, inking the tip and writing on the page. 

Simple. To the point. Torturing as the images in his mind are.

_ Make sure you are not late for night watch again. _

The next time he sees Lyren, he walks up to him, eyes trained on the other’s frame in his knight armor. He never noticed how good he looked up until now. The recruits that surrounded him taper off, the second that they see the Knight-Commander coming over to their party. A Knight-Commander approaching a Lieutenant didn’t happen unless there was something dire to be said.

“Lieutenant Illior,” Riordan says, voice rough with grit and age.

Lyren’s lips part and those equally serious and tempestuous purple eyes look up at him.  His impenetrable gaze and confused countenance almost make a smile come to his lips. 

Riordan watches as his Lieutenant stands at attention, armor clanking slightly as he stepped and planted his feet, hands moving behind his back.

“Knight-Commander." This time, Riordan doesn't miss the way his cheeks flush. He’s always noticed it, but it's the first time that  _ he’s  _ ever had a noticeable reaction to it, that he knows how deep the expression on his face truly goes. 

Riordan is indifferent as he hands him the letter written this morning. His fingers brush Lyren’s, warmth tingling where their skin briefly touched.

"A message came in for you this morning,” he says. “I would appreciate it if your messages do not fall on my desk in the future.”

It is a lie, one that apparently Lyren believes because his eyes are drawn away from him, fingers flipping the letter open with ease. Riordan watches him read it, sees the pink on his cheeks darken, his lips open to speak. But before he’s able to hear what he has to say, he’s being called, one of the Lieutenants coming up and taking his attention off of the green-haired half-elf.

He feels better now that it’s out of the way, listening intently to the status report of one of his battalions on the field.

He thinks, perhaps fruitlessly, that maybe, just maybe, he can do his job.

So, why is he now thinking about red cheeks on warm skin?

* * *

Lines of recruits stand at attention in a line, all eyes trained on him as he walks in front of them. Riordan scans each of their faces, down to armor and then posture. His mouth twitches, a moment of irritation, but nothing more. Truly, when he has other things to do, he hates spending time with the recruits, watching them flail about with a sword as if they have never held one in their lives before. 

He’s a Knight-Commander, not a damn babysitter.

Riordan places his hands behind his back, stopping in the middle of the line with a loud step. 

All eyes on him. Good.

As he speaks, he looks between the different faces, several of which will become blurry faces in the near future. 

"You are here because you swore a duty to Dalmarc. But while you are here," his eyes look over the group again. "You swear loyalty to the Order. I am your Knight-Commander - Riordan Vathukrafk." He rests his hand on the pommel sword as he walks past. He stops his slow appraisal of the recruits and singles in on one in particular. He examines their shaking form and sweaty face, then turns his head to call down the line. "Let me make this abundantly clear: the weak will not live. If you die not from battle, you will die from the sheer embarrassment of your peers outperforming you." 

It’s tough words, ones that offer him a few looks of disdain from Officers and Lieutenants alike, but they knew him. It isn't in his nature to mince words. 

"I expect nothing but the best," he calls, turning his head to look down the other side of the line. "I expect fighters, not loyalists. I expect warriors, not cowards. And in turn, I will lead you through the toughest battles victorious."

Shortly after, the recruits line up around their sparring circle, one of the newer Lieutenants taking over and leading them one by one to show them basic sword-and-shield training. Of course, it’s expected for the Knight-Commander to oversee their training, a show to ensure they know he’s always watching. 

It is a ploy though, Riordan’s attention focused on the Lieutenant. Training recruits is an easy job, and he was less than impressed to see the manner in the way he’s working with the recruits. Carefully watching the Lieutenant - what  _ is  _ his name, Bryant? - work with the recruits, he almost didn’t hear the sound of his Lieutenant come up next to him.

“So, what do you think?” Lyren asks. It is a small opening for conversation, but it is one that he didn’t answer. Riordan keeps his eyes on the way the recruit in the circle stumbles to grab his sword. Lieutenant Bryant waits for him to pick up his blade, and Riordan’s curl slightly into a scowl.

“I guess you’re not liking-”

Riordan interrupts him, “Illior, go into the ring.” 

There’s a pause and then, a “Sir?”

It's the first time today that he looks at Lyren, and despite his previous lack of self-control, he stares at him with a look that rivals hell. Riordan dislikes repeating himself, and he’s sure that Lyren knows that as well. Most knights find it out the hard way, with either added shifts, relentless training regimes, or scrub duties. 

He watches the recognition flit through Lyren's face and his eyes couldn't help but flick towards his lips as he said: “Yes, Commander.”

His eyes flare, memories of that night rushing into him full force. With a smile, and nothing else, Lyren turns to leave, and Riordan watches him.

“And do me a favor,” he calls after him. “Illior, don’t go easy on them. Perform well for me, Lieutenant.”

He doesn’t turn towards him, but he could easily imagine his face as he delivers a breathy “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” 

His Lieutenant is always good at following instructions. 

Riordan watches satisfied as Illior knocks them with a skill and finesse that impresses him.

He deserves the next letter that night, tucked in between the papers of a report.

_ You do well at handling a sword. Good job, Lieutenant. _


End file.
